Page 62 of Unholy Union
It’s difficult to pinpoint what Sabrina’s reaction means, but there’s a noticeable change to her features. Her brows draw closer and she rakes her teeth over her bottom lip, casting her eyes to an indistinct point in the distance.
If I had to guess, the answer to my question isn’t anything good.
Sabrina had been looking forward to the visit. She had put on a nice dress and done her hair in cascading curls, spritzing on perfume I’d noticed as I buttoned my shirt for work.
We hadn’t spoken a word to each other. But that was how we were most of the time sharing this space with each other. It was like enemy combatants forced to share a jail cell together, except we were married and the cell was a bedroom.
Still, I’d noticed how excited she’d seemed. It was the happiest I’d seen her.
“It didn’t go like I hoped it would,” she sighs finally. “My father hasn’t been the same in a long time. It’s like he’s given up on everything…”
I pause half a second, then sit down on the edge of the bed. I’ve never been the type of guy who enjoyed giving advice to people or listening to their problems. Most people are too self-pitying and wallow in them for too long, but after the day Sabrina’s had, I rack my brain for what to say that could help.
“Our fathers, they come from a different time,” I say, shrugging. “He’s getting older. He’s probably thinking back on a lot of things. Realizing his prime days are behind him and soon someone else will take his place. They all go through it.”
“That was supposed to be my brother.”
An uncertain second passes where neither of us say a word.
It’s a dicey topic for us, considering the history between our families.
Sabrina scrubs a hand over her face, sighing again. “It really started with Mami. He had been in love with her since they were kids.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard. Both my father and uncle knew them when growing up in Brooklyn.”
“Papi worked hard to win her over. But she fell in love with him too and they decided to get married and start a family. When he lost her, he lost his spark. He didn’t laugh or smileas much. They used to dance for hours and drink wine and just enjoy each other. I was really young, but I would sneak downstairs and watch them sometimes. They were really happy together. I don’t think he’s ever gotten over losing her.”
I can’t imagine my mother and father laughing—orbeing happy together.
Now that I think about it, I’m not sure Mama has ever truly smiled in Papà’s presence, let alone laughed.
Any dancing they’ve done has been mandatory for formal events. Nothing like Sabrina’s described.
My gaze settles on her, studying how her dark curls spill across the crisp white pillow case and what a stark contrast it makes for.
Sabrina takes after her mother in many ways. Though I was a teenager myself when Mariella Corsini died, I’ve seen photographs of her.
Andheard the stories about her—she was known to be very charming and lively, the kind of woman most took notice of. Many men in our circles attempted to court her, but it was Rinaldo Corsini that won out in the end.
The man fell so hard for her that seventeen years later, he was still a grieving widower.
“You can’t control how your father handles things, Sabrina,” I say, extending a hand without thinking. I brush a loose curl behind her ear, fingertips gentle around the bandage. “Don’t stress yourself out about how your father handles his affairs. You’ll drive yourself crazy.”
Her hazel eyes gleam as she peers up at me from where she’s curled in bed. “That might be the smartest thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’ve said plenty of smarter things; you just never pay attention.”
I leave her where she is to go grab her another glass of water, as well as trash the clothes she was wearing during today’s incident. I send off a couple texts checking on Lazaro and then return upstairs to the bedroom I share with Sabrina.
Her eyes are closed and her phone is limp in her hand. She’s nodded off.
The nurse did mention the pain meds might cause drowsiness. I set the water down on the nightstand and slide her phone out of her hand to do the same. The screen’s still unlocked, open to her Instagram feed.
She must’ve been scrolling through, liking photos when she fell asleep. I glance down at the last thing she was looking at. It’s some post about a ballet company’s upcoming performance at the Koch Theater.
Shelikedthe post. I click on the dance company’s profile to see she’s following them and seems to interact with most of their content.
It occurs to me that I don’t know much about my wife’s interests. I haven’t taken the time to learn.
